


By Any Other Name

by beedee81



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Hogwarts Inter-House Friendships, More tags to be added as story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24577717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beedee81/pseuds/beedee81
Summary: It started - as it always did when it came to Fred and George - with a conversation.Why should they constrict themselves to one house, when they could wreak havoc on two or even three? A few weeks before their first year at Hogwarts, the twins devise a simple long-term goal: to inflict Weasley-induced chaos upon every one of the four common rooms in the castle, by spreading their net as widely as possible. (A phenomenally stupid reason to get sorted into different houses, most people would agree.)Some effects of their decision, however, have a much farther reach than anyone would ever expect.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 34





	1. An Unexpected Sorting

It started - as it always did when it came to Fred and George - with a conversation.

It was the twenty-second of August, 1989 - and it was late. Not too late for a pair of eleven-year-olds to still be wide awake, but late all the same. It was only an hour until midnight, and the twins had just snuck down to the pantry for a quick snack. There was cake left over from Percy’s birthday party that evening - and if anything was better than leftovers, it was _birthday_ leftovers.

They sat in their shared bedroom, companionably eating cake crumbs and drinking slightly flat lemonade, and talking in only slightly lowered voices about Hogwarts. They discussed what they were going to do in their first week there, and which rules they were going to try to break first. They talked about how weird it would be to live somewhere different to the Burrow, which led the conversation to what the Gryffindor common room was like, which led them to what the _other_ common rooms might be like, which led them to...

‘Hey, Freddie?’ 

‘Yes, Georgie?’

‘Why exactly do we have to go into Gryffindor?’ 

There was a long silence. Fred slowly turned and looked at George as if he had revealed himself to be completely deranged - a look that he had learned at an early age from it being directed at him.

‘Well,’ he said, briefly at a loss for words, ‘we’re Weasleys. It’s what Weasleys do; we go into Gryffindor, have done for generations. That’s sort of a given, mate.’ 

‘Well, yeah. But why should that mean _we_ have to? We break rules all the time - and we will at school too, I reckon. So why should we go into Gryffindor just because it’s “a given”? Isn’t that sort of a rule?’

‘Maybe it’s the kind of rule that’s not _meant_ to be broken.’

‘ _Rules_ are the kind of rules that aren’t meant to be broken, Fred. That’s what rules are. And when has that stopped us?’

Fred crossed his legs, and set his jaw and looked vaguely upwards in the way he did when he was thinking. George waited patiently for him to finish, like he always did.

Then slowly, gradually, an evil grin began to spread over his twin’s face. 

‘Now, I don’t like to make judgements. But I reckon, George, that people might be a tad surprised if we don’t get Gryffindor.’

‘Shocked,’ agreed George. ‘Flabbergasted, even. And if we got sorted into _different_ houses...’

‘We’d be able to get into each other’s common rooms! We can probably get into Gryffindor, people will just assume we belong there-’

‘-and then we could find out how to get into all the others. That’s four times the chaos.’

The twins high-fived each other. 

‘So it’s on, then?’ said Fred excitedly. ‘We’re definitely doing this?’

‘Hey, it’s your call, mate, not mine. I was the one who thought of it.’

‘Yeah, let’s go for it.’ Fred paused, then grimaced. ‘On one condition, though - if it offers Slytherin, we bail. I’m not spending seven years in slimy Slytherin for a dare, even if it does scare our parents witless.’

‘Alright. So no Gryffindor, and no Slytherin.’

‘Right.’

Before they could elaborate any further, there was a loud knocking on the wall they shared with Percy. 

‘ _Will you two stop chattering? I have to get up early in the morning to study!_ ’ said their brother’s furious but muffled voice from behind the wall. ‘ _If you don’t quieten down, I’ll tell Mother that you’ve been feeding the gnomes again, you see if I don’t!_ ’ 

‘Put a sock in it yourself, Perce,’ retorted Fred, yawning widely. ‘We’re going to bed now, anyway. Nighty night.’

George snickered. ‘And thanks for letting us have the last of your birthday cake,’ he added. ‘It was delicious. All four slices of it.’

‘ _WHAT?!_ ’ 

_'Percy, is that you?_ ’ came their mother’s voice. ‘ _You’ll wake up the whole house! I know it’s your birthday, but you should get some sleep!_ ’

‘Yeah, Perce, show some consideration, for Merlin’s sake.’

‘ _Argh._ ’ 

And with that, the twins finally went to bed, with identical grins on their faces; content in the knowledge that in less than a month, they'd be off to Hogwarts to raise _hell._

* * *

Unbeknownst to most of the student body, the Sorting Hat could see. 

It didn’t have any eyes - and even if it did, there were so many creases and rumples in the thing that it would be virtually impossible to tell - but regardless of this, it could see just fine. Of course, when it came down to it, visual impressions had little importance to it. The inside of people’s heads was a lot more interesting than what happened to cover them up.

So when the Hat had finished sorting ‘Warrington, Cassius' into Slytherin, and saw just two Weasleys left behind, it didn’t automatically come to any conclusions. It did wonder idly whether they were as identical on the inside as they were on the exterior. (More often than not, it found that such minds were rather different - even if they ended up in the same house.)

‘Weasley, Frederick!’

That said, it _was_ rather surprised when immediately after being placed upon the alphabetically selected twin’s head, it was met with two clear words, placed on the outskirts of the mind like a roadblock:

_NOT GRYFFINDOR._

_Hmm. Let’s see he-_

_NOT GRYFFINDOR, PLEASE._

_You don’t have to shout, you know,_ said the Hat, a little peevishly. _I’m quite adept at reading minds - and I’m not so ancient that you have to use large print for me to make it out._

 _Sorry,_ came the quieter reply. _I’m not going to Gryffindor, I’ve decided. Not Slytherin either, though, so don’t even think about it._

_My, aren’t you particular. Give me a moment._

The Hat picked carefully through the child’s mind. A good amount of nerve, there; plenty of loyalty, too. A carefully sharpened wit - maybe a little too sharp for its own good, but with enough humour to soften it. Oh, to put this one in Slytherin… 

_NO._

Fine, fine. Well, harmless jokes could all too easily turn to cruelty given the wrong conditions. Maybe, with a nudge in the right direction, a little extra kindness could be learned…

‘HUFFLEPUFF!’

As mentioned before, the Hat could see. It could also hear. So it definitely noticed when, after it bellowed the fateful word, the entire Great Hall burst into furious whispers instead of applause. (There was always one like that, every decade or so.) The Hat had seen many reactions to this - some walked with shame to their House; others marched defiantly. This one was apparently the latter.

The sixth-year prefect Charlie Weasley stood up slowly, as if recovering from some sort of daze, and then stubbornly began to clap his brother, glaring at Percy and his other housemates until they joined in. By the time Fred reached the yellow and black table, most of the Hufflepuffs were applauding him as well.

 _Good,_ thought the Sorting Hat. 

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, and glanced back down at the scroll. ‘Weasley, George!’

Aha. Like the Hat had thought, it was quite a bit different with this one. After it finally convinced the boy to stop deafening it with his thoughts, it managed to have a proper look. This twin had a similar temperament to his brother - they had the same love for fun, and the same loyalty to their clan. But this one knew how to watch out for people, make no mistake. So make it somewhere that he could find interesting people to watch out for, better make it…

‘RAVENCLAW!’

This time, the students in the Great Hall knew the drill; and George was received with polite clapping from the Ravenclaw table as he sat down, with only a little bit of muttering about where Weasleys were _supposed_ to go.

‘Well! Maybe those stories William told about them were exaggerated,’ said Professor Flitwick to Professor Sprout hopefully, as they tucked in after the Headmaster's speech.

‘Perhaps,’ she replied. ‘I’ve got lucky so far when it comes to my students. If one of them’s a Hufflepuff, chances are they aren’t so bad.’

Little did Pomona know that just ten days later, having reviewed the foot-long list of terrible things Fred Weasley the Hufflepuff had done since arriving at Hogwarts, she would mentally replay these words, and then beat her head soundly upon her desk as punishment for having come up with such a stupid thing to say. She and Filius would just about make it till Christmas before sending a joint Howler to their mother, demanding to know _why_ she hadn’t sent some kind of warning about what they were like. As it was, they would now spend at least one Saturday a month for the next seven years commiserating over wine, while Minerva would look on with an air of smugness, saying things like, ‘I don’t know what could have happened. I mean, William and Charles are two of mine, and they’re such nice boys.’

Severus, meanwhile, just counted himself lucky that he took the time each year to instil fear in the children so they wouldn't go near him.

* * *

Fred was severely disappointed when it came to the Hufflepuffs’ level of security, he really was.

At least a password would _change_ every now and again, which would make things more challenging. But tapping the tune of ‘Helga Hufflepuff’ on some barrels? Any idiot could do that. The stupid tune got stuck in his head ten times a day as it was. At least he now knew roughly where the kitchens were. Trying to keep its location secret but calling a well-known corridor in the castle “The Kitchen Corridor” might be considered a tactical mistake. 

The common room itself was pretty nice. Everything there was yellow and faded grey, with lots of squashy armchairs and plants hanging from baskets (a few of them were twitching in their sleep). The whole space was lit with gently glowing spherical lamps, as well as the merrily roaring fireplace.

‘Alright everyone, feel free to have more of a look around before you go to bed,’ the Hufflepuff prefect told them, smiling amiably. ‘You’ll find your luggage and any pets you might have in your dormitories ready for you. If you have a problem with your sleeping arrangements, or you have anything else you want to talk about, please don’t hesitate to find me or Deborah, and we can have a chat about it. Alright?’ 

Fred stayed longer than anyone else in the common room. Past midnight, even. It wasn’t until he finally got into his pyjamas and slipped into the last remaining bed in the first-year dormitory, nearest to the window, when it finally hit him: George wasn’t coming. He was probably in another bed - with a blue bedspread instead of a yellow one - on the other side of the bloody castle. He’d be stuck in a silent dormitory with a load of boys he didn’t know, just like Fred was.

Fred looked up at the canopy above his four-poster bed, decorated with the sunny colours of the nicest and friendliest House in the school, and realised with utter certainty that he must have made a terrible mistake. 

And the worst thing was that for the first time in his life, he had no idea if George felt the same.

* * *

The next morning brought an unforeseen, but in retrospect very obvious obstacle.

'What'd you mean we can't sit together?' George demanded, a bit outraged. 'He's my brother!'

'He's also a Hufflepuff,' explained the third-year Ravenclaw girl, a bit patronisingly. 'And you're a _Ravenclaw_ , which means you have to sit at the _Ravenclaw table_. I know they're your family, but you can't just sit down at another table just because you _want_ to. The whole point of the house system is that we stick together and...'

George looked behind the annoying student, and saw that Fred was having a similar conversation with one of Hufflepuff's prefects. She had bubblegum pink hair, even though bright hair dyes weren't allowed at Hogwarts. That was rule number seventy-five; it was on their list of rules to eventually break. Bad form for a prefect, thought George.

'...Are you even listening to me?' the third-year demanded. 'Look - what I'm saying is, you were sorted into Ravenclaw for a reason. You're like us, Weasley. And that means you have to sit with us, and like it.'

'Yeah, well, I don't like it. And I don't like _you_ either. Bye.' George dodged past her and headed for Fred.

'Look, I don't see why I have to sit with your lot instead of my brother!' Fred was saying loudly. 'I thought Hufflepuffs were meant to be nice!'

'Trust me, I _am_ being nice,' said the prefect with gritted teeth. Now he was closer, George could see that her hair had bold red highlights, which clashed unpleasantly with the pink. Had those always been there? 'But only because Hufflepuff doesn't actually _have_ any points for me to take away yet. If you don't like how the tables work, go and find somewhere else to have breakfast.'

'Maybe we will!'

'Yeah!' And with that, the twins marched out of the Great Hall, shoulder to shoulder. George could see Percy glaring at them, his horn-rimmed glasses flashing at them across the room. Charlie had his head in his hands.

'No regrets?' George asked Fred, a little uncertainly. It was the first words they'd exchanged since the Sorting.

Fred gave him a grin. 'No regrets.'

* * *

'Okay, now I'm regretting it a little bit,' Fred muttered, as his stomach gave another loud growl. 'Merlin's pants, I'm starving.'

'Yep, me too,' answered George, grimacing. He'd eaten a ton at the Feast the night before, but that didn't seem to help one bit. 'Look, after we're done with Charms, it'll be lunch. We just have to... hold on till then.'

Fred scowled. 'And then what? Go happily back to our tables and sit with people who _aren't_ us? No, thanks.'

'Yeah, alright, but what's the alternative? Starve to death, just because everyone here is a bloody lunatic?'

'Remember, boys, we're supposed to be studying the Wand-Lighting Charm!' said the professor squeakily, looking down at them from the tower of books he was stood upon. 'Unless there's something more interesting you'd rather be doing...'

'Yes, there is, actually,' Fred said, not even looking up.

Flitwick sighed. 'Two points from Hufflepuff for cheek, Mister Weasley. Now, follow that wand movement, and hush!'

They sat in sullen silence for a while. George lazily traced the diagram in their textbook.

'You know,' he muttered, 'we could swap ties, now we're together. We could swap tables and nobody would notice. That'd be pretty funny.'

'Yeah, but we still can't sit _together_ , Georgie. We don't even have the same lessons half the time.' Fred sighed, and rested his head on his folded arms. 'This stinks,' he declared, slightly muffled. 'If there was even _one_ table where they'd just let us sit in peace...'

'But there isn't. Not in the Great Hall, anyway.' George crossed his arms, and was just about to put his own head down when something occurred to him. 'Although...'

'Although?'

'Doesn't say anything about us sitting together at a table _outside_ of the Great Hall, does it? Tables like, say... this desk?'

'Or those massive workbenches in the classroom right next to the Great Hall, for that matter.'

'Exactly, Freddie.'

'Focus, _please_ ,' said Flitwick again, looking decidedly irritated. 'If you aren't going to put the work in, it won't be too long before you end up behind. You don't want to reach end-of-year exams and not be able to do a single-'

' _Lumos_ _,_ ' George interrupted, casually flicking his wand. A small but consistent light flared up at the end of it, and he glanced up at the Charms professor.

'Please let me finish speaking, Mister Weasley. Three points from Ravenclaw for rudeness.' Flitwick's eye twitched. He looked at the bright light, stubbornly refusing to waver. 'And two to Ravenclaw for good spellwork. Let's all have a go, shall we?'

The twins high-fived.

* * *

'They'd better not be planning something,' Charlie said warily, eying the enormous doors as he ate his tuna sandwich. Even as he said the words, he understood the flaw in what he was saying. Of course they were. That's why they'd deliberately sat closest to the door, so they had a chance of intercepting them.

'Of _course_ they are,' Percy told him, as if reading his mind. 'And they always will be, you know that. There'll be six inches of snow in Egypt before those two learn any sort of maturity. Everything's just a joke for them.'

'Maybe you're right. Still, I get the feeling _this_ isn't just a joke. Tonks told me Fred looked properly put out that they couldn't sit together at breakfast. She felt bad about it afterwards, she told me.'

'Mm.' Percy side-eyed him, and the beginnings of a smirk appeared on his typically serious face. 'You and Tonks talk a lot, I suppose? About... things?'

'Look, she's not my bloody girlfriend, Perce! I've told you this before. Just because she's a girl and we're both prefects doesn't mean we're _snogging_ all the time.'

'You could be though,' his little brother said innocently. 'I'm simply saying that it's possible, considering how much time you spend together.'

Charlie sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. It was easy to forget exactly how young Percy was still, considering how much he sounded like an eighty-year-old member of the Wizengamot half the time. But conversations like this, you could only have with a thirteen-year-old. He knew, because just three years ago he'd had the exact same discussion with Bill, who had been just as exasperated. (Of course, in that particular case, he _had_ eventually caught Bill with Eric Crayford in a supplies cupboard near the Divination Tower, proving his theory - but that was besides the point.)

'Do you hear that?' said Percy suddenly, craning his long neck. 'It sounds like something being dragged.'

'Something heavy, too. Maybe Filch finally broke out those chains he keeps in his office.'

'Well, if anyone could make him snap on the first day of term, it would be Fred and George.'

'You're probably right.'

The scraping noise got louder. Now it was closer, it sounded more like wood than metal. And as the door inched open-

'Oh. Oh, no.'

The table was enormous - about the size and width of Hagrid himself, with old letters and names engraved into the pale wood. It looked like it might have been quite beautiful, once upon a time. Unfortunately, besides being quite dusty, it had a lot of rude words written on it - which was probably one of the reasons the twins had decided to bring it (with some difficulty) into the Great Hall in the first place. The rest of the school watched them with varying amounts of curiosity and (in Charlie and Percy's case) exasperation and dread. Satisfied with the table's place in the corner nearest to Gryffindor, the twins hastily exited the room - only to return seconds later with a pair of equally battered-looking chairs. They placed the chairs on either side of the table, sat themselves down, and politely tucked napkins under their chins.

Charlie took his prefect duties fairly seriously (if not quite as seriously as he took dragons or Quidditch), but he definitely wasn't keen on disciplining his own brothers in front of the whole school. Also, his sandwich was really good, and had horseradish in it. So he was a little bit relieved when McGonagall herself descended upon them like an angry god, before he could even stand up.

'What,' she said, in her most scathing and draconian-sounding voice, 'is going on here? Why in Merlin's name have you done this?'

'Oh, hello Professor!' said George, waving cheerily. Wait- _was_ that George? Or had they switched uniforms at some point? Son of a Banshee, this was going to be a _nightmare._

'Yes, hello. Sorry we didn't get into your house - we had other plans. Looking forward to Transfiguration, though.'

' _Why have you moved this table from its original classroom?'_

'Well, no one seems to use that classroom, you see,' George - or Fred - told her, as if it was the most watertight explanation in the world. 'Someone told me it used to be for Ancient Runes, before they moved to the Third Floor about a decade ago.'

'And they wouldn't let us sit together at any of those tables. So, we've invented our own house!'

'It's called "Smogfarts".' Fred - or George - gestured towards the banner they'd attached to the table. McGonagall glanced at it, then turned her head away as if her eyes had been burned. 'As you can see, our house colours are violet and blood-orange. The noble house of Smogfarts only accepts those rare witches or wizards with a quality only the greatest magicians have...'

'Trapped wind.'

There was a wave of giggles from the other tables. McGonagall whirled around to glare at them. All of them immediately tried to look as if they were completely ignorant to what was going on not ten feet away from them.

'How... _dare you_... Mister Weasley, and Mister Weasley. Defying the rules, stealing school property - I've never seen such behaviour in all my years at Hogwarts-'

'No we haven't.'

'...What?'

'We haven't stolen school property.' The twin with the blue tie shrugged. Charlie was almost certain it was Fred - he was the one who tended to come back at people faster. 'We just moved it here from next door. It's not like we've dumped it in the Forbidden Forest or anything, Professor.'

'And we haven't broken any rules, either,' added George. 'Yet. It's not actually against the rules to bring your own furniture to the dinner table. It used to be, but they got rid of the rule when the first wheelchair user came to Hogwarts in 1801.'

'He's right!' a sixth-year called out.

Charlie looked on nervously, as McGonagall continued to glare at his brothers. He was a bit worried that if she kept it up, they might actually burst into flames. And if they were expelled on the first day, he'd never hear the end of it from Mum about how he should have been keeping an eye on them...

'I would say "I beg your pardon", Mister Weasley and Mister Weasley,' the professor said eventually, 'but that would be a lie. You are the most disrespectful and feckless children I have ever met, and it will take a lot of effort to convince me that you are capable of being credits to this school. However, on this occasion... you are not breaking any rules. Make no mistake, I _will_ be having words with Dumbledore on how to proceed, when he returns from the Ministry.' She stalked away. About halfway down the length of the table, she spun around again. 'And if you think we are disrupting the kitchen routine to cater to your... _ridiculous_ table, you are very much mistaken,' she told them, raising her voice. 'You will beg your food off of the _real_ houses, and be grateful for it.'

'Of course.'

' _So_ grateful.'

McGonagall took one last look at their identical cheeky grins, and swept off to her seat at the staff table, with as much dignity as she could muster.

'Well, I think that went quite well, all things considered,' said Percy.


	2. In Which Many Boils are Acquired and an Enemy is Made

_Dear Boys,_

_Happy first weekend at school, dears. We hope you aren’t getting too homesick, and that you’re getting used to Hogwarts. I’m sure they’re feeding you well. Would you like us to send some strawberry fudge? I’m trying to get rid of it, you see - I made an enormous batch just the other day for Helen Diggory’s birthday (since she liked it so much at the Applebees’ garden party last year), only to discover that the silly woman has given up sugar! Hasn’t eaten so much as an Every Flavour Bean since January. As if there isn’t enough punishment in the world._

_We were all very_ _surprised when we heard that you two ended up in different houses, of course. (Poor Ron almost choked on his cornflakes when he heard you were a Ravenclaw, George.) And the rest of the family is very interested in how you’re getting on - you’re the first Weasleys to not be in Gryffindor since your Great Great Uncle Caractacus, after all. Still, your father and I are very proud of you both. Now you can give the Weasley family a good reputation in two more houses!_

 _On that note, Percy wrote to me to tell me about your ridiculous stunt with the table, and we_ will _be having words about it when you’re home for Christmas. I’ve written to Headmaster Dumbledore about it (he seemed to find it funny for some reason), and I understand you didn’t break any rules, but for Merlin’s sake show Professor McGonagall respect. She may not be your head of house, but I am your_ _mother_ _, and I will personally come to the school and turn your ears into earwigs if you don’t show some manners._

_Anyway, I love you both very much. Please write, and don’t make too much trouble._

_Lots of love,_ _  
_ _Mum xxx_

* * *

After just over a month at Hogwarts, with winter gradually approaching, the Weasley twins had succeeded in losing (and occasionally gaining) points on behalf of all four houses.

While most of the first-years were focusing their efforts on making a feather fly or turning a match into a needle, Fred and George were attempting to turn their ties different colours, with varying degrees of success. The Colour-Changing Charm in their textbook, _Multicorfors_ , was the first one they found - unfortunately, it only lasted a few minutes at most, and the charm chose the colour apparently at random. A pink and purple tie didn’t do them any good in terms of sneaking into common rooms - and it wasn’t a good colour for their complexions, anyway. _Colorusca_ , meanwhile, was a little _too_ permanent. When they tried it, it didn’t just affect their clothing, but instead made them shine in all the colours of the rainbow from head to toe for upwards of five hours. They decided it would be worth holding onto for parties and fashion shows, but it wasn’t especially useful for their current situation. Still, it had been worth going to class just to see the look on Snape’s face when they walked in.

Eventually they hit gold with the lesser-known spell _colomuto_ , which, when cast when envisioning one or two colours, would turn the tie that particular combination for up to thirty minutes.

A few of the teachers had given up on telling them apart altogether, and simply took away points from whatever house they were pretending to belong to at the time of the incident. Professor Snape had taken to subtly casting _finite incantatem_ on them every time they entered the dungeons, with limite results. Although it reverted their uniforms to their correct makeup, it did not exactly attest to the identity of each twin, since they enjoyed switching so much. Professor Sprout, who had a tendency to make quite barmy decisions in the name of fair play, elected to take an equal amount of points from every house instead of trying to guess. Of course, this made absolutely no sense at all - but it was the fairest solution they could come up with that would keep the point system semi-intact. (This was disregarding Argus Filch’s valued input at the last staff meeting, where he pointedly suggested that he be allowed to just thrash the students instead.)

The only remaining common room they had yet to successfully infiltrate was Slytherin. The password seemed to change twice as often as the Gryffindor one, and the Slytherins were a lot cagier about it. And although their ties could now be changed at the drop of a hat, even with their first-year magic, human transfiguration was very much a NEWT-level skill and they knew it. Bill had told his siblings horror stories about nervous students in his end-of-year exams accidentally vanishing their examiner’s nose or turning their cheeks inside-out, and that had been enough to scare them off the idea for the time being.

‘It’s the _hair_ that’s the bloody problem,’ Fred complained, picking out an offending strand and glaring at it. (It had been a good couple of months since their mum had last forcibly given them a haircut, and his fringe was well into his eyes by now.) ‘We could probably pass as weirdly freckly Slytherins if it wasn’t for that Weasley hair.’ He paused. ‘Hang on. Do any of the Slytherins have freckles in the first place?’

They were crouched in the secret passageway behind a cracked and dusty mirror on the fourth floor corridor, the first one they’d found. The lighting was terrible, and the tunnel was almost completely caved in, but it was a good place to spend time together if they didn’t want to deal with anyone splitting them up or eavesdropping.

‘Must do. Still, I’ve never seen a blood supremacist with freckles, have you?’

‘Can’t say I have, George. Maybe they get them spelled off or something. Like the Dark Mark but the other way round.’ 

‘Maybe.’ George shrugged, and turned back to _Magical Draughts and Potions_ by Arsenius Jigger, hovering the glowing tip of his wand over the words. ‘Hey, look at this. Bulbadox powder, from our ingredients list for next year. “Has a delayed explosive effect on any mixture that does not contain freshly squeezed horklump juice, and prone to con… contusion?... oh, combustion. Will also cause boils to break out on bare skin. Use with caution.”’

‘“Use with caution”? Now _that_ sounds promising.’ Fred inched closer, their heads almost knocking together as he keenly studied the page. ‘Zonko’s doesn’t use this stuff, I’ve seen the ingredients on the back of the box.’

George grinned wickedly. ‘Maybe that’s their mistake. Just imagine it, Fred! Homemade explosions, for less than a Sickle! The sky’s the limit!’

‘The ceiling wouldn’t stop them, that’s for sure. Anyway, even if it doesn’t make good fireworks, I wouldn’t mind putting some in Kenneth Towler’s underpants. The git’s probably done something to deserve boils down there.’

‘He is a bit of a moron,’ agreed George. ‘Did you see him in Flying Class trying to explain to Katie Bell what a bloody _broomstick_ was?’

‘She knew enough about them to know which end to hit him over the head with.’ They both snickered. ‘Anyway, let’s do that at some point.’

‘ _What plotting is this_ !’ came an old, dusty shriek from outside. ‘ _Conspiring against fellow students! Hiding in illegal passages!_ ’

Both twins’ eyes went wide with alarm. ‘Filch,’ whispered George urgently, shuffling away from the entrance and closing the book with a quiet _snap._ ‘That’s all we bloody need.’ They blinked as the mirror concealing their position was shoved off to the side, flooding the space with afternoon sunlight. Then Fred cautiously opened his eyes, and began to laugh.

‘Bloody hell, we thought you were Filch! You absolute prick, why would you do that?’

Lee Jordan shook cobwebs and dust out of his dreadlocks, and grinned down at them. ‘I’ve been working on my impressions,’ he told them smugly. ‘Wanted to see if it was convincing. And it scared the crap out of you, which is a plus. Scaredy Hufflepuff.’

‘Bonehead Gryffindor,’ returned Fred, making a rude gesture. Lee cackled. 

‘Seriously though, you should keep it down, or move further back. Filch knows all these passages; Angus Currie heard him boasting about it. When he hears voices in one of them, he reaches his walking stick in and pulls them out by the neck with the crook. Then he _drags_ them across the whole school, and down to the dungeons to see Snape - probably ‘cos he’s the nastiest about that kind of thing. Secret passages, I mean.’ He looked around furtively, almost as though he’d managed to unnerve himself. He stepped through the hole, and pulled the mirror back into place with a loud scraping. ‘So! What are you plotting?’ 

‘How to get into the Slytherin common room,’ replied George immediately. ‘We always get rumbled the second we head downstairs.’

‘We reckon it’s the hair tipping them off. Anyway, we want access for mischief-based reasons.’

‘Causing trouble in the snake’s den. Brilliant.’ Lee grinned at both of them. ‘You going to dye your hair, then? Seems the best way to do it.’

The twins thought about it. 

‘You know, I’m embarrassed, but I hadn’t even _thought_ of that,’ said Fred, scowling. ‘We’ve been messing around with magic so much, I forgot about stuff like that.’ 

‘Me too,’ admitted George. ‘How much do you reckon it’d cost us? We only have about thirteen Sickles between us.’

‘My Mum does hers black for special occasions for about three Sickles a go,’ Lee told them. ‘You can get it by owl. All you need is the potion, plus some hair that’s the colour you want yours to be. She uses mine a lot of the time.’

‘But even if we look the part, we don’t know the password.’

‘Well, if we look the part, someone might just tell us,’ pointed out George. ‘And if something else was going on at the same time…’

‘You mean the…?’

‘Yeah, that. And then-’

Fred nodded slowly, a devious grin spreading across his face. ‘Oh, yes.’ 

‘Non-twin translation, please?’ asked Lee, rolling his eyes. 

‘Oh, right. We’ll do it on the Hallowe’en feast. That way the common room’s nice and empty. Last person comes out, we claim we forgot something in the dormitory, they let us in, we raise hell - job done, quick as a Grindylow’s fingers.’ 

‘Cool! That gives you about three weeks to scheme.’

George laughed. ‘We actually prefer the term “long-range planning”, mate. Less Slytherin that way, you see.’

* * *

The dungeons, as the favoured meeting place for most of the castle’s ghosts, were looking unusually cheery on the thirty-first of October. Although the air was just as chilled as it always was down there, there were a few decorative spiders and cobwebs hung up to accompany the real ones, and streamers with purple and green accents brightened up the darker corners. Pumpkin-shaped balloons drifted lazily above students’ heads like blimps, enchanted to emit a warm orange glow.

At exactly seven in the evening, Fred poked his head cautiously out of the space behind the portrait of Elizabeth Burke, then stepped out. His hair and eyebrows had turned a very attractive shade of dark brown, which exactly matched the hair he’d stealthily nicked off Cedric Diggory while he was snoozing through one of Professor Binns’ lectures.

He turned around, and made a quick gesture. ‘Coast is clear. Come on!’ he said in a loud whisper.

George followed him out of the passage, glancing around before closing the portrait entrance. His hair was now dirty blond, copied from Luke Turpin in Ravenclaw. He also had a blue hand-knitted scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face, to hide his identical features.

‘Don’t reckon we’ve left it too late, do you?’ he asked, his voice heavily muffled. ‘Feast’s probably starting in about fifteen minutes.’

‘Nah. Anyway, someone might forget something and come back to pick it up. It’ll work out, you’ll see.’ Fred hefted the faded old satchel on his right shoulder, grimacing as he did so. It was heavy, and the straps strained against what was inside. ‘Let’s get downstairs, before someone comes along.’

They hurried down the narrow set of stairs which led them even further underground, hands skimming the silver and green hangings which covered the rough stone walls. Fred swore under his breath as his foot almost slipped on something which felt like moss, but apart from that they were oddly silent. 

Luckily, two older students - a boy and a girl - appeared to be leaving the common room at the exact moment they reached the bottom. They caught a glimpse of the entrance before it closed smoothly behind the pair with a loud scraping noise, a featureless stone wall taking its place. 

‘-splinched himself again, of course,’ the girl was saying, as the scraping stopped enough for the twins to hear them. ‘But then he’s always been a bit of a disaster, hasn’t he? If he passes the test this year, I’ll eat my…’ she trailed off as she caught sight of them, and smirked. ‘Alright, firsties. Wanting to get in, are you?’

‘Um, yes,’ said Fred, making his voice sound as deep and posh-sounding as he could. ‘Forgot my - er, that is to say - hat. You wouldn’t happen to know the password, would you?’

The pair stared quizzically down at him. Fred held his breath.

Finally, the boy glanced away, and snorted derisively. ‘They only changed it on Tuesday, you know. Honestly, sometimes you first-years remind me of goldfish. The password is _pyrite_ \- it’s another name for “fool’s gold”, if you didn’t know. Try not to forget it this time, won’t you? Or run off and blurt it out to your Gryffindor mates, for that matter.’

‘Get your head out of your arse, Jules,’ the girl grumbled, elbowing him in the side.

‘Ow, Sasha! What was that for?’ 

‘To make you lay off, obviously. Look at them, they’re only little. Besides, if we don’t leave soon, the food’s bound to get cold. See you at the Feast, shrimps.’ The pair pushed effortlessly past, and started up the staircase, resuming their conversation. 

‘“Only little”?’ Fred said indignantly, once their footsteps had echoed away. ‘“ _Only little_ ”?! That’s just plain patronising!’

‘Bloody hell, yeah.’ George rolled his eyes, and stepped forward, temporarily forgoing the scarf to make himself clearer. ‘I bet the password is bogus as well, hang on - _pyrite._ ’ The wall slid to the side slowly, revealing a passage. ‘Alright, then. But they were still patronising gits.’

‘Agreed.’

They stepped through cautiously. 

Unfortunately, there were two girls still sitting on one of the emerald green sofas, who they recognised from class. The taller one - the one with the strawberry-blonde curls - wrinkled her nose at them, before turning back to her friend. George hurriedly pulled the scarf back over his face, and they walked quickly across the room, chests stuck out to show off their green ties as much as possible.

‘Well, _that_ was stressful,’ said Fred, as they closed the door to the first-year boys’ dormitory. ‘This place makes my skin crawl, honestly. Should we get started?’

‘Not until those two move out,’ George said. ‘I’ll keep an eye on them, and make sure nobody comes back in here. You get the gear out.’

‘Right.’ 

To his annoyance, the two girls were still relaxing on the sofa when George peeked through the keyhole. He rolled his eyes - _girls_ , honestly - and settled in to wait for them to clear out.

‘Where do you suppose Robson even is?’ the smaller one was asking. She had a thin, anxious-looking face, with mousy brown hair in a long braid down her back. ‘Do you think she’s already left for the Feast? I haven’t seen her since breakfast - and she wasn’t in the dorm when I went up...’

‘Oh, don’t bother with her,’ said the other dismissively. George couldn’t see her face, but imagined she was probably sneering. ‘There’s a good chance she’s skulking around the library as always; toadying up to Madam Pince. She never seems to be anywhere else. Why would a feast stop her?’

‘I don’t know why she bothers. If she wants to be a bookworm so badly, she should have gone to Ravenclaw. Slytherin’s supposed to be about making friends. That’s what the Sorting Hat told _me_.’

‘Maybe she’s just trying to convince people she can read and write. Honestly, I’m not convinced. She looks like a confunded troll half the time. And you should see the state of her essays.’ They both giggled, while George frowned to himself. If this was how they talked about other Slytherins, who knew what they were saying about the Gryffindors? Merlin, he was glad he hadn’t ended up eating meals with _them_. 

The taller girl gradually stopped tittering, and straightened up, brushing imaginary dust off her robes. ‘Come on, Rosalie, I’m hungry. You can feed Jasper later. He’s probably out catching mice, anyway.’ Her lofty tone of voice was of someone who didn’t expect an argument. Her companion immediately got to her feet.

‘Alright, Antonia. I hope the elves have made the yorkshire puddings again, I love those…’

Within a few seconds, they had disappeared from the common room. The fireplace, as if sensing the lack of activity, immediately extinguished itself as George stealthily retreated to the dormitory.

‘Alright, they’re gone,’ he said, glancing around the room. ‘Have you worked out which bed belongs to who?’ 

‘Some of them. That one’s probably Pucey - the one with the Montrose Magpies posters all around it. That other one _smells_ like Warrington,’ Fred added with a grimace. ‘And those two have to be either Montague or Bletchley.’

‘Doesn’t matter in the end, I suppose. They’re all getting the Bulbadox treatment.’ George reached for the overstuffed satchel, and pulled out the large sackcloth pouch that had been taking up so much of its space. It was tied off with a piece of string and a tag, which was labelled with the words: _Adder & Hemlock Wholesale Potions Goods - Economical Ingredients for the Knowledgeable Potioneer. _

Fred gave a wide grin. ‘Alright, Georgie. I think we’ll start with… the pyjamas.’

* * *

The first day of November kicked off to an interesting start. Barely a minute after the clock tower rang six o’clock, a long procession of sore-ridden Slytherin boys emerged from their underground base, trailing miserably along the castle’s corridors and down to the Hospital Wing. They were led by their Head of House, who marched ahead of them with a face as thunderous as the enchanted skies over Azkaban. 

It took Madam Pomfrey no time at all to identify the problem and brew a basic Cure for Boils. However, the sheer amount of students suffering from the problem meant that there were still faces conspicuously absent at breakfast. 

‘Merlin, that was priceless!’ Fred snickered, as they made their way to Transfiguration. ‘We got _everyone_ , too - and there’ll be a second wave when they change clothes again. Were we thorough enough, do you reckon?’

‘Probably, judging by the way Bole was walking.’ They both cracked up again.

‘Hey, _idiots._ ’ Fred was the first to look up, still giggling to himself. Expecting to see a face, he instead saw a green and silver tie. He allowed his head to crane upwards to see the person’s face. 

‘Oh, Circe’s eyeballs,’ he muttered.

The first-year girl towering over them was _big._ Not tall, exactly, not compared to some of the third-years - but Fred and George were small for their age, and this girl seemed to have a sort of looming presence which had nothing to do with her height. She was wider than both of them put together, and was clutching her wand like a cartoon policeman would hold a truncheon. 

‘Um. Hello,’ said George. ‘Don’t think we’ve met.’

‘You’re the ones who got into the boys’ dormitories.’ It was not a question, or either an accusation. It was stated as solid fact. ‘You’re in massive trouble, I hope you know that. Snape’s furious - he’ll probably melt off your freckles.’

‘Only if we get caught,’ Fred pointed out, quite coolly. ‘And even if we did, what’s your proof _we_ did the prank?’

The Slytherin made an incredulous noise. ‘I dunno, how about you being the bloody Weasley twins? Or how you’re the _only ones_ who didn’t come to the Hallowe’en feast last night?’

‘What, are you _spying_ on us? Pathetic.’

‘You literally brought your own special table to the Great Hall, then didn’t show up to it. I didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure it out.’

‘Who’s Sherlock Holmes?’ 

‘It doesn’t matter!’ snapped the girl. ‘Point is, you’re the only ones without the alibi of going to the Feast. And it had to be boys who did it, because otherwise I’d have boils too. The girls’ dormitory has a mechanism against idiots like you.’

‘Actually.’ Fred stepped forward, and his eyes narrowed. ‘My brother and I decided to embrace the house community spirit for the day. Special occasion and all that. I sat at the Hufflepuff table, with my housemates. It was all very touching - we held hands in a ring and sang “Underneath the Horklump Tree”, and made flower necklaces for each other. We need to get to class, by the way. Can we go?’

The Slytherin glowered. ‘Fine. I don’t want to waste my free period on you, anyway. You’re both so bad at lying, I swear you’re like a pair of confunded - bloody - trolls!’ 

Something suddenly clicked inside George’s brain. 

‘Hey,’ he said slowly. ‘Your name isn’t Robson, is it?’

‘Does it matter?’ 

George shrugged. ‘Depends. Only, we ran into a couple of your Slytherin friends the other day, in a place that definitely wasn’t the dungeons. Overheard them talking about you. Right, Freddie?’

‘Apparently,’ Fred added, ‘they reckon you look a bit like a confunded troll yourself. And according to them, you read and write like one too.’ 

There was a long, burning silence.

‘If you said that to - to _upset_ me, or make me hex you, it won’t work,’ the Slytherin told them harshly. ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks. And I _don’t care_ -’

‘Time for class, boys,’ interrupted McGonagall briskly, apparently emerging from nowhere. ‘Or are you going to chatter in the corridor all day like a pair of chimpanzees? No wands in the corridor, please,’ she added sternly, glancing meaningfully at Robson’s right hand. The girl flushed, and stuffed the wand in her pocket. ‘Thank you, Miss Robson. I suggest you find your way outside, and make the most of the surprising lack of highland mist we’re having today.’

‘You know, Fred,’ George muttered to his brother in class, ‘I don’t reckon that’s the last we’ll be seeing of old Troll Features, not by a mile.’ 

‘No, me neither. I suppose we’ll just have to make the first move. It’s only fair, really.’


	3. The One-Eyed Witch

It turned out the twins were right to think that they hadn’t seen the last of Robson. Then again, she hadn’t exactly seen the last of  _ them,  _ either. 

After some debate, they decided that to just use Bulbadox powder would not be in the spirit of things - and would be a little bit wasteful, since potions ingredients cost actual money. But this didn’t bother them so much - after all, there was a world of wand magic to be explored, and they were  _ very _ promising young wizards. 

First there was the spell  _ manegro,  _ which George employed under his breath during a Ravenclaw-Slytherin Herbology lesson, as Sprout was giving a lecture on how to harvest valerian sprigs. He looked on in satisfaction as the girl’s ratty-looking bob grew out uncontrollably in all directions, covering her face and her robes in a matter of seconds. Before anyone could laugh or react in any way, Robson drew her own wand and cast a particularly vicious Singing Jinx in retaliation, causing George to burst into a rousing and completely involuntary rendition of ‘Ninety-Nine Bottles of Butterbeer’. The lesson was abruptly abandoned in favour of two major objectives: giving Robson an emergency haircut with  _ diffindo _ , and shutting up the Weasley. One clumsy bowlcut and thirty-seven bottles of butterbeer later, both of them had earned a night of detention with Filch, cleaning dusty old Gobstones awards in the trophy room after hours. 

(‘Why do I have to have a rivalry with you idiots, anyway? Don’t you have any actual  _ friends  _ to annoy?’

‘Aww, you don’t mean that. Who would you hex to oblivion if we weren’t around?’

‘Nobody. And I know you’re the other one - your tie’s fading back to yellow.’

‘He had a late essay, give us a break. Loving the hairdo, by the way. Have you been taking fashion tips from Hagrid?’)

Although this corridor war escalated massively over the next few weeks, it was overtaken by a different kind of drama. Professor Oddpick, the short-lived Defence professor for that year, was taken ill with an acute case of mumblemumps, and was rushed to St. Mungo’s for emergency treatment. The students and staff had mistaken the nonsensical mumbling and long naps at his desk for his usual teaching style, so his illness unfortunately hadn’t been diagnosed until his face had abruptly swollen to the size of a pumpkin mid-lesson. A replacement teacher, a retired dragonologist by the name of Professor Smawg, was hastily found and put to work. She was an exceedingly competent teacher, who had no trouble getting her head around the curriculum for the younger students in the few days before her teaching began. And her numerous burn scars and slightly manic expression meant that very few students gave her any lip. 

‘Alright, first-years,’ she growled at the assortment of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs in her first class. ‘I don’t know what you used to get up to with your last teacher, but if you think even for a  _ second  _ that you can act up and get away with it just because I’m a substitute, you’re dead wrong. I used to teach at the Institute for Dragon Studies over in America, so I’m used to a little more maturity in my class than most of you seem to be capable of. And I won’t accept any of this idiotic rivalry between houses, either. When you’re in the classroom, you answer to  _ me.  _ Got it?’

‘Yes, Professor Smawg,’ the class chorused. 

‘Good. Now, I will note down your names on this diagram, and check them off on the register as I go.’ She waved two pieces of parchment. ‘You will follow this seating plan until the end of the year. Any attempt to bamboozle me will be punished severely. Now, what’s your name?’ 

She worked steadily through the ranks of students, noting down the real names and scowling at the joke ones. A red-headed Hufflepuff boy named Fred Weasley (who Professor McGonagall had informed her was one of many brothers) tried to introduce himself as Daedalus Diggle. Then at last she came to a boy with flaming red hair and a matching tie, and sighed. 

‘I was warned about this,’ she said, pulling out her wand.  _ ‘Finite incantatem!’  _ To her mild surprise, the tie remained stubbornly red and gold.

‘Is everything alright, Professor Smawg?’ asked the boy, pulling a worried expression. ‘Is something wrong with my tie?’

Smawg frowned at him, unconvinced. ‘You’re a Weasley, aren’t you? Judging by your features. And you look just like that boy over there.’ 

‘Yes, Professor? Um, my name is Percy Weasley. Nice to meet you - I’ve been looking forward _awfully_ to this class.’

‘Is that so? Well, it’s a shame that you’re not on my register, isn’t it?’

‘Oh. Well, that doesn’t surprise me that much.’ The lad gave a heavy sigh, resting his head sadly on one palm. ‘It’s a bit of a nightmare, being the least-liked Weasley triplet. They even forget to add me to the  _ register,  _ I’m that forgettable.’

‘Look, I’m sorry, Perce,’ said Fred loudly from the other side of the room. ‘It’s not your fault that me and my other brother are definitely handsomer and overall better human beings than you are. But you have to let it go, or the bitterness will consume you!’

‘Never!’ “Percy” shot back. ‘Sometimes people forget that I exist! They even think that it’s just you and George in our year _ ,  _ for Merlin’s sake! _ ’ _

Lee was looking on as if he was watching the greatest event in history unfold, a wide grin taking over his face. A Hufflepuff named Daisy Cauldwell, meanwhile, turned to her friend with wide eyes, and tearfully whispered, ‘I didn’t even know he was  _ in _ our year. I feel so  _ bad.’ _

‘Daisy, you absolute  _ dolt,’  _ said Ivo Smith out of the corner of his mouth, ‘stop crying, will you, or you’ll give the game away. It’s clearly one of their tricks, you wait and see.’

‘Alright, alright,’ said Smawg, holding up her hands, ‘things are getting a bit out of hand. Percy - I’m sorry you and your brother don’t get on, but this is a  _ classroom.  _ If you don’t calm down, I’ll have to take points away from both of you.’

The red-headed Gryffindor took a couple of breaths, then made calm eye contact, sitting up in his seat.

‘You’re right, Professor,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for making a scene - I’m just here to learn.’ Fred leaned back in his own seat, and stuck out his tongue. Smawg elected to ignore him.

‘That’s what I like to hear. Now, let’s talk about ghouls...’

* * *

‘So, how have you been finding them?’ McGonagall asked in the staffroom, quietly sipping her liquorice tea as they sat together on the weathered blue sofa in the staffroom. Professor Sprout was in there as well for once - opting to do her lesson plans away from the rain and the slightly leaky greenhouses - but apart from that they were alone. 

‘Fine, fine,’ answered Smawg. She shook grey hair out of her eyes, and reached for her own mug. ‘There was a bit of a scuffle with the first-years, but it sorted itself out fairly sharpish. Sold the “grizzled warrior” thing well as I could, so the monsters wouldn’t give me too much trouble. Merlin knows I find children far more frightening than dragons, when it comes down to it.’ 

‘I don’t blame you. Combining small children with magic does tend to brew slightly disturbing results. Oh, speaking of dragons, Ramona - would you mind me sending one of my Gryffindors your way on Saturday? His name’s Charles Weasley, one of our older students; he’s a Prefect, and Gryffindor's Quidditch captain. He has a lot of intelligent questions about dragonology, but Professor Kettleburn is away this year, and it's not exactly Wilhelmina’s speciality…’

‘Of course! I’d love to meet him. I came here to teach, after all - and I’d never miss a chance to spread enthusiasm about my subject.’ Professor Smawg took a long sip of her coffee. Then something occurred to her. ‘Hold on. So you’ve mentioned two other Weasleys - Fred and George?’

‘Yes. Little devils, those two - love to play tricks on their teachers.’

‘Right. And do they have a brother called Percy? Or it might have been Peter.’

‘Percy Weasley, yes. He has a tendency to be overshadowed by his brothers, but he’s always been an excellent pupil in my class. Plays by the rules, and helps his classmates without hesitation. You shouldn’t have to worry too much about him.’

‘Oh! Oh, good.’ Professor Smawg gave a short laugh. ‘You see, I ran across him during one of my classes this morning, and I thought it was some sort of trick being played on me! Still, he was very polite and hard-working - not like his brothers at all.’

‘Well, I know I warned you ahead of time about tie-swapping tricks, so I don’t blame you at all for being cautious.’ McGonagall glanced up at the clock. ‘I must go and teach my seventh-years. Please excuse me.’

‘I’ve got to rush off too - I’ve got a double class with the third-years. See you at dinnertime.'

Professor Smawg stepped into the strange classroom once more, feeling a little more confident in her ability to teach the children. Third-years were likely a bit more mature - and they were learning almost exclusively about magical beasts, which were more in her field.

‘Now, I’ll write down your names on this seating plan, so then I’ll know who you are.’ She began with the gangly redhead at the front, who sat a couple of inches straighter when her eyes landed on him. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Percy Weasley,' the boy said immediately. 'Pleasure to meet you, Professor - I’ve been looking forward  _ awfully  _ to this class.’ 

The professor promptly came to a halt. She straightened up, tottered slowly over to her desk, seated herself, and started mumbling to herself about brothers and ties and deceit, her head sheltered in her hands.

The class of thirteen-year-olds looked on, not quite sure how to react. 

‘Wow, Perce. You broke the new teacher just by introducing yourself,’ said Oliver Wood, nudging him in the ribs. ‘I think that might be a permanent record. Hang on, we’d better get Madam Pomfrey to test for mumblemumps…’

* * *

‘Not a bad impression of Percy, really,’ Fred complimented, as they ate their dinner in the Great Hall. ‘You really nailed the smarminess this time.’

‘Cheers, Fred. I only wish I could have made it less flattering. Anyway, you were the one who suggested switching ties with Lee, then changing the colour when it was on him.’ 

‘Yeah, well - I didn’t reckon they’d bother checking anyone else.’ Fred gazed into the distance, a lazy smile on his face. ‘Ah, substitute teachers. They make it too easy.’

‘Hey, Trollface on the move at six o’clock,’ muttered George, ducking his head down. ‘She’s getting up from the table. Should we…?’

‘Oh, alright,’ his twin sighed, pushing away his portion of pie. ‘They’ll vanish the plates soon, anyway. Besides, I'm bored.'

They trailed out into the Entrance Hall, careful not to lose sight of the Slytherin. It wasn't too difficult - the efforts of Professor Sprout during the Herbology lesson a few weeks back had given Robson a haircut that was… distinctive, to say the least. Someone had apparently had a go at salvaging the fringe, but it was a losing battle. 

They followed as she walked along a less-travelled corridor near the kitchens. Near the end of it, she turned, and caught sight of them. She swore.

'Hello!' said George cheerfully. 'Sneaking around, are we?'

'Good for you. You'll be skulking around like a vampire bat in no time - keep it up!'

'Oh,  _ bog off!'  _ was all Robson said in response. She set off at a faster pace - not a run, but a fast walk nonetheless. The twins jogged alongside her. 

'You know,' Fred said conversationally, 'Snape must have signed about twenty detention slips for us by now. Maybe even thirty. So if you  _ did  _ want his autograph, we'd be happy to give you one.'

'Starting price is a Galleon,' added George.

Robson scoffed, her eyes looking resolutely ahead. 'Why the hell would I want his autograph? We're nothing alike.'

'Beg to differ. You're both in Slytherin, for one thing. A  _ big  _ thing, since all of you are slimy gits. You both do Potions-'

'We all do Potions, genius. It's a required subject.'

'-you both  _ enjoy  _ Potions, then. And of course there's the bad hairdo. You have  _ that  _ in common.'

'That was  _ your  _ fault!' she shot back, glaring at George. 'And it's not like you two are exactly Malkin's mannequins yourselves! Look at you. Wonky haircuts, hand-me-down robes-'

'Well, so are yours!'

'So?'

'And our haircuts aren't wonky! Our Mum has slightly bad aim, that's all.'

'She’s dead careful and everything, the spell’s just clumsy. They should  _ really  _ think of a better spell for that stuff.'

Robson crossed her arms. 'Your mum cuts your hair?'

'Yeah.' Fred stuck out his chin obstinately. 'Who does _yours,_ Trollface? Personal hairdresser?'

'My nan does it,' muttered Robson. 'When I'm at home, anyway.'

'...Oh. Alright, then.'

There was a slightly awkward silence as they continued walking - the kind that tended to happen between people who'd very much hoped that they had no common ground, and then found that they somehow did. Neither Fred nor George could imagine a pureblood Slytherin with their head over the sink having their hair cut with kitchen scissors, like they both did when they were at the Burrow. 

The brief spell was promptly broken when Robson whipped out her wand and shouted,  _ 'Locomotor wibbly!' _

Fred's legs immediately took on the consistency of cheddar cheese, sending him to the floor in seconds. George swore as he dropped to help his twin - then again, as he noticed Robson running.

'You bloody-! Come back!' 

'That's for the bloody hair!' she yelled back. Her footsteps echoed away. 

'Well, that was just  _ mean _ ,' said Fred, trying to get upright. 'She needs to learn some maturity.'

'You're telling me.' George hooked one arm underneath Fred's shoulders, and pulled him up with a grunt of effort. 'Lean on me, Freddie. Hospital wing?'

'Nah, too far. This one's a short-term jinx - it'll wear off before we get there. Hufflepuff common room would be good, though.'

'Right.' He made to turn back the way they came - then paused. 

In their hurry to keep up with Robson, they had stopped paying attention to where they were going. None of the portraits were familiar. Most of them were snoozing at this point, and - George checked his watch - it was fifteen minutes till curfew. Bugger. 

'What's the matter?' asked Fred, looking up at him.

'Do you know where the hell we are?’

'Ground floor, I think. Don't remember going up any stairs. But honestly with this castle, who knows.'

'I can't even remember the last few turns. If there were any.' 

‘Balls. Maybe we could wake up one of the paintings and - hang on. Isn’t that Scabbers?’ 

George followed Fred’s pointed finger, a little way down the corridor they’d just come from. There, poking out from behind an ancient-looking statue, was a large and slightly harassed-looking rodent. ‘Yeah, that’s him alright,’ he affirmed. ‘The other rats are better looking.’ 

Scabbers gave an offended squeak, and scurried away. The way he was moving seemed a bit… ungainly. And there was something bright blue in his mouth, George noticed; something that looked a bit like -

‘He’s got something,’ Fred said, squinting. ‘Oh. Is that-?’

‘A stick of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum? Yeah, I think so.’

‘I’ll bloody well fight him for it - that stuff is the best. Never loses its flavour, and the bubbles last for  _ ages. _ ’

George snickered. ‘Please. You’d probably  _ lose  _ a fight with Scabbers, the state you’re in.’

‘Oi. I can almost feel my left leg now, it’d at least be a draw. He’s gone now, anyway. Where did he even come from? And where’d he get the gum?’

‘Percy, probably. He went to Hogsmeade just last week. Maybe he went to the sweetshop there.’

‘But George, I was watching him, right - and it looked like he was coming  _ out  _ of the statue.’ 

‘Pull the other one,’ said George, rolling his eyes. 

‘I mean it! I saw it with my own ears!’ Fred put on his best ‘innocent’ face. ‘I’m just saying, it couldn’t hurt to check it out. Maybe Scabbers knows something about the castle that we don’t.’

‘He’s a rat! What the hell would a  _ rat _ know that we don’t know?’

‘How rubbish tastes. We don’t know that, but he probably does.’

‘Speak for yourself.’

‘ _ George.’ _

‘Fine, fine. We can have a quick look.’ George not-so-gently deposited his brother on the hard flagstones (ignoring the loud ‘oi!’ that followed this), and approached the stone witch without much enthusiasm. He squinted up at the face. The witch’s features were frozen in a wide, toothless, and frankly unflattering grin. A spider had made its home in the hollow of her missing eye. 

‘See anything?’

‘I can see too much, if anything,’ said George. ‘I think this statue has actual nose hairs. And so many warts… doesn’t look like the face should be able to hold all of them up. Whoever made this statue must have  _ really  _ hated-’

‘Merlin, will you just  _ focus  _ for a few seconds?’

‘I am focusing! Look, there’s just nothing-’ he broke off as his eyes travelled down the witch’s side. ‘Hm.’

‘What?’ 

‘Something engraved in the base. Random letters - a code! Do we have any parchment? Or a quill? I need to write this down.’

‘Satchel, bottom of the bag. You shouldn’t have doubted me, I’m just saying. I think we can both take a lesson away from this. Ooh, my left leg’s coming back.’ 

‘W… R… H…’

There were a few seconds of silence, both twins occupied with various things. George was hurriedly transferring the arrangement of letters to a crumpled scrap of parchment; Fred, meanwhile, was fighting off pins and needles, with limited success.

‘There!’ George tapped the parchment, double-checking it for inaccuracies. ‘W, R, H, H, V, M, W, R, F, N. But what does it all  _ mean _ ?’ He furiously studied it, as if not blinking would somehow give him the ability to read the text. 

‘Well, it wouldn’t be a very good code if we could tell, would it?’ Fred pointed out, as he shook out his left leg gingerly. There was no reply. Fred looked up at his twin, and snickered. ‘You’re going to be completely useless for at least a week, probably. Once you have a puzzle to work on, there’s no bloody getting your attention. It’s like the Jigsaw Incident all over again.’

‘...Hmm? What’d you say?’

‘Nothing. Not important.’

**Author's Note:**

> As you will have probably worked out from the quality of this fic, I do not own Harry Potter or any of these characters. Still, if you liked it, it would be nice to have some feedback to see what people think!


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